Day 10: Somewhere near Logrono

At the city gate of  Puenta de la Reina

The days are becoming a blur, a slog from albergue to albergue.  We are learning what it feels like to be a homeless person, with everything you own carried in one bag.  It takes so much effort to hold onto your “stuff”; your socks try to leave you and fall on the stairways of the albergue, your hat lies on the road for an hour before being picked up by someone walking behind you, your toiletry bag is a mess and washing clothes everyday becomes a serious drag.  Living from meal to meal, the desire to take off your pack and collapse in a chair, the effort to make conversation in several different languages, usually all mixed together in some horrible Franken-speak, is taxing after long stretches schlepping through sun-parched landscapes.

I have inched up many a hillside singing an ancient and effective pilgrim marching song called Stella Splendens, dating from the 12th century.  It is amazing how effective a strong beat can be in keeping one foot moving steadily and rhythmically in front of the other.  I walk quite slowly, leaning on my staff heavily, and have learned this is the best way to avoid blisters.

 There are many, many blistered feet on pilgrims at this point, and Logrono Hospital is filled with crippled pilgrims.  Blessedly, I have only one hot spot I am nursing, and Stuart´s feet are in great shape.  Blisters are the physical manifestation of suffering on the camino, but many pilgrims are walking with painful back-stories too, and while most are willing to talk about their foot injuries, they are much more guarded when it comes to talking about their inner pain.  And so, we all walk, haltingly or briskly, or some speed in between, knowing that this walking in itself is salutary on many levels. 

My bastone

Many of us attend pilgrim masses when we can, but for the most part the churches are closed to us, which is a little sad, for it feels symbolic of the times.  Only one of the several monasteries we have stayed in has been active–all are abandoned and refurbished to house pilgrims, but no religious population lives there anymore, save a handful.  The church Masses, I must say, are perfunctory and not satisfying, in spite of the richly decorated churches where they are held.  The quiet, empty Templar chapels are still very holy places, though and the natural landscape is the temple for the wanderers here. 

Tonight we are in a dreary, windowless municipal albergue, hoping to sleep in our three-tiered bunk beds.
Again, it is a monastery, next to a church damaged in the Carlist War and demolished int eh 18th century.  In its time, it was a formidably beautiful church fortress.

Tomorrow, we try to make our way quickly through Logrono to Navarette, about 20 odd more km onward.  The larger cities hold little appeal, and are in fact jarring to the psyche after the tranquility of the countryside.   The sun does not rise before 8 am and days are becoming shorter, so we walk the entire time it is light.